


Morbid Expectations

by serapheim



Category: DBSK|Tohoshinki|TVXQ, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Anger, Angst, Character Death, Dark Thoughts, Death, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, M/M, Morbid, Sex, Smoking, Suicide, Unrequited Love, Violence, indifference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serapheim/pseuds/serapheim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hated everything about this world around him and his life. He was not a good man or a just man. He always knew he didn’t deserve love. Every second he expected him to be gone. And gone he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morbid Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just don’t know what I write. It just comes out of me. Apologies! And be aware of variety of triggers.

He didn’t like the stale smell of cigarette smoke in his hair, yet every day and every minute he craved for the deadly addiction. He wished for this heavy burn in his lungs, for menthol taste on his tongue. The urge made him nervous, edgy, made him bite his lips and chew a tip of his pencil. He knew it showed. He knew, everybody could tell, that he wished to have a smoke break right that very second, when he tapped his fingers on the table in an absolutely not melodic way. He both pitied and despised himself for his need.   
  
  
He hated the sour aftertaste of alcohol on the next morning after parties; the taste which was sour and nauseating, no matter how sweet his drink had been. He couldn’t stand hangovers or depression, which seemed to follow him every time he dared to succumb to the Green Lady. He cursed himself every time, that he chose to drown his uncertainty and doubts in liquor. It was a weakness, a shameful addiction, a flaw.   
  
  
He loathed the sheer imperfection of human body. He disdained the foul smell of sweat and other body fluids; he scorned at the frailty of flesh beneath his fingers; he abhorred the animalistic instincts that made him yield to the charms of the other. He hated the moans and grunts that were anything but musical. He detested the way his body ached even after such a pleasurable act. He despised the primitiveness of his want, the fact that the once he had tasted that skin, he couldn’t let him go.   
  
  
There were so many imperfections in his life, so many flaws, so many things he wished he had never seen, he had never had to do. Every so often he wished he was blind or deaf or maybe both at once. He didn’t want to see, he didn’t want to hear or feel. The world around him was ugly and he himself was a crowned king of this foul kingdom.  
  
  
He, however, was the only true gem in the pile of shit, which he called his life. He was his only solace, only salvation. As imperfect as others, his imperfection was of a different sort. The beads of perspiration that gathered in the dips of his body didn’t taste bitter; the groans, which escaped the pretty mouth of his, were not cacophonous; the crooked teeth, the more often than not bitten nails, and spots on his skin were not revolting, but rather endearing. It was illogical, he told himself, for he was no different from the others. And yet he was.  
  
  
If there was anything, he hated most of all, it was himself. He detested himself not for being unable – or even willing – to submit to his wants, but for edging away from the warm body in his bed, for escaping the tender embrace, for ignoring the loving glances, for pretending not to notice the tears in the dark orbs. This was a weakness, this was a sin. This, and not the passion, which was forbidden by religion; this, and not his addiction to drugs or alcohol. It was a sin far worse, deserving far heavier punishment.   
  
  
It was a sin called indifference.   
  
  
He knew he deserved not love, but accusations; he felt, his actions earned hatred, but not silent acceptance. He thought, that in no way God could have possibly sent him such a treasure. He believed, that he couldn’t have been sent to him by any divine intent. He must have cheated, have committed a crime, without fully realizing it. He wasn’t a good man, he wasn’t a just man. It must have been a mistake. And very soon the other would be gone. He would disappear in the same mysterious way, he had slipped into his life. That was why he couldn’t bear to make attachments.   
  
  
He didn’t want a real relationship, he didn’t want “dates” and “break-ups” and “I’ll make up to you”s. What he wanted was to satisfy his insatiable greed for the other’s body. And that was it. Or so he kept telling himself. He was used to his life being miserable and full of meaningless encounters. He didn’t believe in fate, didn’t believe in good will, couldn’t recognize happiness even now. Because words “happy” and “love” were not in his lexicon.   
  
  
That was why he was sure that he would be alone in the end. He was convinced, that he would eventually get tired of him and leave him. Because he didn’t belong to him. Because it had to happen. And he both anticipated and dreaded that day. But he wasn’t surprised at all when that day came.   
  
  
No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t surprised to come home once and find the once pale and luxurious body gone cold and lurid in his bathtub full of blood tinted water. He wasn’t astonished to discover no death note. Nor was he shocked to find his gun, charged and lying on his bed. And when he without a second thought took it and, pressing a barrel to his temple, squeezed the trigger, everything was just like he had expected.   
  
  
Dark.   
  
*****  
  
Written: November 19, 2005  
Revised: April 14, 2013

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote with Yoochun in mind as the main character (if it wasn't clear).


End file.
